It was raining again. Fiona sat upstairs on her bed and watched the rain against the window and tried not to think of Tommy. She had this bedroom to herself, Gavin having slept in Stuart’s old room for more than ten years now, since Fiona had reached a point where she couldn’t cope with his snoring any longer. When Stuart came to visit, Gavin moved back in with Fiona and neither of them mentioned their customary sleeping arrangements (it would upset Stuart, Fiona felt. She was certain, anyway, that he would have something to say about it).

Fiona loved this space, with its crisp white sheets and pink quilt folded neatly across the bed, all her things arranged precisely on the dresser, no clutter, no dust, everything clean of her husband’s earthy, cumbersome presence. She resented ever having to share the room with Gavin, even if it was only once a year when Stuart came home. It smelled different with Gavin in it, and took on, Fiona felt, a crumpled, soiled feel. It made her almost glad when Stuart left again, and she could throw the window open and clean the room top to bottom, change the sheets, take possession of it again. If Gavin came upstairs wanting something from her, she knew he wouldn’t come straight into the room, even though it had been his bedroom too for almost thirty years, but would knock and wait politely outside the door, and instead of calling, “Come in,” Fiona would meet him at the door, blocking his way. She had noticed this in herself, and in him.

Fiona put out her hand and stroked the quilt, absent-mindedly smoothing any wrinkles; she always liked making the bed in the morning, pulling the quilt taut. She took a moment to enjoy the feel of the material beneath her hand. Focus on the present moment—that was all the rage these days, wasn’t it? Mindfulness. Fiona had read an article about it the other day and it had sounded appealing. There were many things in the past she would rather not think about. She assumed this was the same for most people by the time they were her age.